


These Savage Hearts

by Pereprin



Category: Strange Magic (2015)
Genre: F/M, Modern Day plus Ancient Scotland, Time Travel AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-25
Updated: 2016-02-26
Packaged: 2018-04-17 03:02:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4649745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pereprin/pseuds/Pereprin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lost in ancient Scotland, Marianne must conquer the Bog King in order to return to her place in time. Unfortunately, her quest instructions are highly interpretive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Rise

**Author's Note:**

> I have no idea what I just wrote. All I know is that this is a delayed fill for Day 3 of Strange Magic week - Wild Things- and it's heavily-inspired by the Outlander series by Diana Gabaldon, with a smattering of RoseWaterWitch's "An Awful Fix." I have no freaking clue how often I'm going to update this. Be warned, there's a bit of foul language ahead.

Time and its ever-changing tides devoured the mortar and bone in the earth. The ebb and flow of the ages touched man and his makings, but not Fairy, nor its king. In the place between places, the Lord of the mists and mires ruled the darkness and all its denizens - unchallenged, unchecked.   
  
Just was his rule, and his court, well-kept, due in part to the fear of his ire that struck like a squall. But his sovereignty was magic-made, and always would he be beholden to the unknowable will of the force that crowned him.  
  
His was an immovable kingdom, as ancient and fixed as the roots that bound the old oaks to the earth. But father time would test him, and magic would play her part.   
  
She came from the north, or so the amanitas claimed. The moss muttered of darker things, of which little sense was made. The moss did not take to speech as the mushrooms did, but still, they speak in the way that only the trees and rocks fully comprehend. And theirs is a language lost to both fairy and man.  
  
It is of little consequence by the time she breaches the gates. She is a broken vision of a realm he does not recognize, garbed in vibrant colors and unearthly vestments. Her eyes are wild, her hair the color of peat. Steel glints in her hand, trembling fingers gripping the hilt through gritted teeth and he can  _smell_  the blood on her. His nostrils flare. It’s true, then. She is human. She is mortal.   
  
Slowly, he rises, clutching his scepter of thorns and burrs, brilliant amber glowing atop it in a cradle of earthen knots. His guards close in, but he raises a hand in a wordless command and they freeze where they stand.  
  
The sword she carries bears a mark he’s not seen in eons, and it makes his grip tighten around his staff. She holds her weapon low - she is unaccustomed to the weight, he can see that plainly - drawn and poised. Her footfalls are heavy - she bears more than the weight of her own body, that much is clear.   
  
A labored stride brings her to the steps at the base of his dais. Blood trickles down the swell of her cheek from an unseen gash, obscured by her wily locks. Slight and breathless though she is, she booms with a voice that belongs to a warrior twice her size.   
  
“Bog King! Fight me, or die a coward!”  
  
For a moment, he does not understand her. Her tone is so foreign, a moment passes before her meaning reaches him. Stunned though he is by the strange affectation of her words, he does not dawdle. He steps forward and stares down the length of his nose at her paltry display of defiance.   
  
“What mortal fool is this who trespasses in my kingdom, demands a bout and threatens me with disgrace?” The walls shake as promises of violent recompense fill the halls, but she does not tremble with them.   
  
She does not buckle as she beholds his grotesque countenance - no, her eyes burn as they lock on him, alight like wisps on the moors.   
  
She does not falter under the weapon she is too novice to wield. But she brandishes it shortly before her, sparks spitting where the blade connects with the stone at her feet. But if she is mortal and of this world, he can claim her. With a word given of her own volition, she will be his to rule.  
  
He will have her name and he will break her with it.  
  
“Nice try,” she spits, venomous.   
  
He seethes and takes a menacing step forward, jeering downward. Distantly, he is amused by her antics - few possess the gall, but he is unaccustomed to it. The air around her is thick with a potent magic, and he cannot allow himself to toy with her as he is want to do.   
  
“Then you shall die nameless.” His snarl widens. Tattered, iridescent wings fan out behind him.  
  
A cry erupts from her and he does not expect her reckless advance. But he is ready - two hands grip his staff and spin across him. The blade clangs against the metal, locked between them. She glowers upward at him, and he can see her clearly at last. He briefly eyes the iron teeth on the flaps of her grey tunic.   
  
“What magic is this?” The King sneers.  
  
“I don’t know,” she winces, and the steel in her voice weakens, “but it… fucking…  _sucks_.”  
  
Her sword scrapes loudly against his staff as she is suddenly boneless, sagging where she stands. The hilt tumbles from her slackened grip and clatters down the rough hewn steps, sliding to a stop at the feet of his guardsmen. They look up at him for guidance, but he offers none. He is preoccupied with bowing over her, clutching at her cowl to stop her as her unconscious body begins to slide down the steps. Long fingers pierce the damp, woven fabric. A black claw slips through a blood-rimmed tear.   
  
Beside him, a burly guard ambles up the steps and offers the discarded sword in his thick, scaled hands. “Sire.”   
  
The Bog King does not look at him, but accepts the prize while he searches the strange creature’s ashen, slack features. A small black slab slips from an unseen pouch on her person.  
  
A jarring racket echoes through the castle, and his subjects clasp their claws, hands, and paws over their ears in unison, shrinking away from the cacophony. Fear reigns in his court then, but he alone is overcome then with a mild irritation as he reaches for the contraption and prods it into silence. He straightens, staring down at the motionless woman with a thin-lipped look of disgust.  
  
When the echoes at last subside, his subjects return to the light. A diminutive, frog-like creature hobbles up to his side. “My king, shall we cast her out?”  
  
“And deny a road-weary traveler our hospitality? Nae, I think not,” he drawled, gripping the hilt of her blade and turning it until the sigil caught the light. Eyes like glaciers narrowed at the mark. “Take her to the dungeon and bind her there.”  
  
The Bog King lets slip a low rumbling noise, his eyes still fixed upon the sword. Anger blooms in his heart, and the centuries come flooding back through memories best left forgotten.  
  



	2. Time & Fate

_Then_

The rain evolves into sleet by four o’clock, and the sun begins to sink beneath the horizon shortly thereafter. Marianne slumps in her booth, the forest green vinyl sinking under her weight. It’s the thick sort, the kind that endure ages of abuse, but the scent of cigarette smoke always seems to cling on. It’s not her; she hasn’t smoked since college. They’re not porous in the slightest - she can’t fathom how it’s possible.   
  
The thought doesn’t hold her attention long, as she looks out the window, watching as the street lights flicker on one by one.  
  
She digs her hands deeper into her canvas jacket pockets, wishing she’d not shed her down layer so hastily. It drips in the corner, hanging damply from the communal rack The glass window beside her is freezing to the touch, and the cold emanates from it in waves. The cup of coffee before her still steams, thanks to an attentive waitress, who brings with her a new term of endearment each time she comes by to top her off.  
  
“Can I get you anything else, sugar pie?” The waitress is there suddenly and Marianne jerks upright with a start.   
  
She’s ‘sugar pie,’ now.  
  
“No thanks. I’m waiting on someone.” Marianne tries to smile, but it lacks sincerity. The waitress, beaming and bedecked in her striped uniform, black pun perfect - not a hair out of place - assures her she’ll come back later when the rest of the party arrives.   
  
For a second, Marianne considers calling after her, asking her not to bother. He’s so late at this point, it’s no longer fashionable. It never was.  
  
She doubts he’s coming at all.  
  
But the coffee is warm in her belly and there’s a heater under the table, blowing warm air out from the wall. It offsets the chill in her extremities. She’s out of her house, and that’s a victory in and of itself. Chicago nights in December are long and frigid, and her days too are spent inside. The world in the winter makes her feel like the darkness is eternal, that she will never see the dawn again.  
  
Grim thoughts such as these reminder her to buy a UV lamp.  
  
The phone in the back pocket of her jeans blares “Choice Millionaire” and she knows what she’ll hear on the other end before she even looks at the screen.  
  
“What?” she grumbles.  
  
“Marianne?” her sister crackles brightly on the other end and Marianne is only slightly surprised. “Hey, you okay?”  
  
Words fail her when she first attempts a reply, but she clears her throat and finds that speaking comes much more easily to her this time around. “Dawn, sorry - wasn’t expecting to hear from you. Yeah. I’m at Sunny’s, waiting for-”  
  
“Roland? Yeah, he just called,” Dawn’s tone is cautious.   
  
Marianne presses, “And?”  She knows better than to drag this out. She knows what will be said, and it angers her that they’ve come to this point.   
  
More than anything else, she loathes that he won’t tell her personally anymore. He’s lost the nerve and wheedles to whoever will listen when he knows he’s hurt her.  
  
“He’s not coming. Said some friends came into town and he’s-” Dawn tries to explain, but even she is not convinced. Marianne hears it in her voice. She knows her sister better - she knows Roland’s ruse grates on her, and her approval of him is waning. It wavers every time he does this to her.

Marianne is too embarrassed to admit just how often this happens.

She doesn’t want to be on the phone anymore.

“I gotta go, okay? We’ll talk later.” They won’t, but her promise is well-intended. She hangs up before Dawn’s pleas for more time can reach her.   
  
Marianne fishes a fistfull of dollars out of her pockets and places it on her table. The waitresses behind the counter refill their ketchup bottles, slice their pies and bid her a customary farewell. When she turns to reclaim her coat, it’s nowhere to be found. Her throat tightens and she swallows thickly. Quickly, she turns to interrogate the women bustling behind the counter, but they are gone. She looks out the door, into the darkness and feels a sob well in her chest.  
  
There’s nothing to be done about it. She hunches her shoulders and braces herself as best she can against the cold. The bell on the door jingles as she steps out into the frigid world, and the freezing wind strikes her like a fist to the gut, stealing the breath from her lungs.  
  
She forces herself to inhale the frigid air and clutches her own arms tightly,, hurrying through the flurries toward the bus stop across the street. The wind howls mightily then, and she nearly trips and falls when her boots connect with a patch of slick ice. She steadies herself, half-upright, shaking wildly and fighting to regain her balance.   
  
As clear as day, then, she hears what sounds like singing.   
  
Quickly, she straightens, the cold momentarily forgotten as a light to the south glimmers and grows, swelling into something far larger and brighter. As it expands, the chorus carries on louder. She hears drums and hymns, distant but steady.

There are wild voices on the wind, singing words she doesn’t understand.  Louder and louder, they cry as the light blazes into a new sun.  
  
Then, at once, silence.   
  
The number twelve bus roars past her with its headlights as bright as novas, and the songs are chased away by the honking of a deafening horn. She can hear the muddled cursing of the liquored men in the street, who narrowly avoided it as it slid to a halt at the covered stop.   
  
She clutches her bag to her chest and hurries through the sleet toward the relative safety of the bus.

It’s just her and three other women on board at this point on the route - all appear to be fresh off their shifts in various stages of exhaustion. A peaceful quiet settles upon them all, interrupted only by the mechanical whirring of the engine, the churning of massive wheels through the slush.  
  
By the time she arrives home, she is humming the same five notes over and over again. She can’t remember if they’re correct, but they’re what she can recall from that fleeting song.

It plays in her head as she drifts in that place between dreaming and waking.  

_Now_

* * *

 

Marianne aches. It’s not a feeling that plagues a single bone or muscle - it’s that full-body throb that cripples after days-long hikes, or a terrible bout of the flu.

The world beneath her is hard and cruel, scraping her cheek raw. Slowly, her eyes open into dismal dimness, pale light trickling in from the gaps between the bars that cage her into the wall. She’s on her side, face pressed to the floor. She gradually becomes aware of the ropes binding her wrists at the small of her back. They’ve not been there long, she thinks. The skin beneath the cord doesn’t burn yet.   
  
Someone confined her to this cell. A flood of recent memories gives her a good sense of who exactly may have done such a thing.

There’s nothing to be done about that now, and her heart sinks as she notes she’s been disarmed. Her stomach protests its own emptiness, but she ignores it and tentatively rolls onto her back. Nothing breaks, and save her sore muscles, nothing seems to be out of place. Her hoodie is worse for wear, caked with mud and full of holes. Little good it does against the cold now.  
  
Marianne sighs up into the earthen ceiling, taking comfort in the feeling of the steady rise and fall of her own chest. Carefully, she recited the words the woman on the wind gave her. She’d long-since memorized them and committed their meaning to heart.  
  
It was all she could do to keep the mounting terror at bay. This forced calm quelled the screams rising in her. When she first landed in the marsh, she couldn’t breath deep enough to cry. There’d been a long moment of panic down in the creek bed, where she knelt on the bank with her head between her knees, begging the powers that be that she might wake up.  
  
Three days later, as she trudged along the steep green cliffs, she accepted that there would be no waking up.  
  
In a fit of fear-induced delirium, she’d taken a stranger’s sword and swore that she would kill the Bog King. Fragmented thoughts could not make sense of this request, nor the pieces of the puzzle issued to her. She simply accepted and promised in blind desperation that she would do all that was in her power to get home alive.  
  
If that meant killing a fairy king - which she did not believe existed until this day - then so be it.  
  
Provided he did not kill her first.

She still does not know when or where she is. There is moonlight streaming through the hallway, so she assumes it's still night.

There is something otherworldly here, something she was raised to believe existed only in fables and bedtime stories. She has seen wondrous lights on the moors one moment, and terrible, fanged grey monstrosities thirsting for her blood in the next. This is a wild place, and she doubts herself and her will to survive it. Fear alone is a powerful motivator, but she only has so much in her. 

She’d survived the water witch just barely, in a fight Marianne knew she ought not to have won. By the time she crossed the bridge into the maw of the Bog King’s castle, battered and bereft of her sanity, she’d thrown all caution to the wind. It was with desperate conviction that she struck, and a miracle alone kept her aim true.  
  
As she lays back on uneven stone, she muses why she is still alive.

Perhaps, she thinks grimly, she will not be for long.

“I trust you slept soundly.” A thick Scottish brogue rasps over her, and she is scrambling to her side, flailing to put as much distance between her and the cell door as possible. Her head connects with the stone in her struggle, and her hiss of pain is loud and unbidden.

The Bog King leans against the place where the door meets the wooden walls that imprison her, his posture one of ease, but his features taut with things yet unspoken. The right half of his figure is cast in shadow. He smirks at her. “Not so bold without your sword are you, lass?”

“What do you want?” she grunts, lips pursed tightly as she looks upon him.

She wants to apply human qualities to his figure when she views him, but they simply don’t fit. He’s impossibly tall. Inhumanly lanky. Leaf-like appendages extend from his scalp in what she might have called hair, if it were not so obvious that it was not. Large, bark-like formations shield his shoulders and chest, and she wonders if it’s part of him.

“You’ll make no more demands of me tonight,” he warns with an edge in his voice. Distantly, she notes his manner of speech has changed since he first addressed her before his court. There is something familiar in the way he speaks, and it alarms her. “I’ve my own questions.”  
  
There should be nothing familiar to her in this world.

He does not wait for her to reply as he steps fully into the light, pale eyes fixed on her crumpled form. She swallows loudly, her mouth suddenly very dry. Slowly, she rolls her eyes up to meet his, determined to hold his gaze. Determined not to bend anymore than she already has.  
  
But she does not fear him - she can't afford to - though his words carry grisly promises and she thinks that perhaps she has made a grave error. She realizes, as her gaze drifts downward, that he holds her phone in the palm of his long, clawed hand.  
  
“And you _will_ give me answers.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is very uncharted territory for me. Please let me know what you think!


	3. Duress

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning for language and mildly physically threatening Bog.

The Bog King watches the dark shape shifting frantically in the shadows as she spits her brazen slings. There is a spark in the gloom; he recognizes that a wan ray of light that has caught her eyes, revealing her hiding place. Even in the blackness, he can see the grim determination smoldering in her gaze. Something paces within her and he wonders then what sort of beast he has caged.

It’s clear as day that she wants what he holds in his hand; his words may have stoked the flames of her rebellion, but she cannot resist fear’s thrall. It renders her quiet.

He cannot recall the last time any creature, mortal or otherwise, addressed him with such recklessness. But he is long-lived and made of auld things. He no longer remembers the names of the fools who came before her, but it does not matter. They never mattered.

Even those who trespassed from realms unknown were never long for this world.

Gingerly, she shifts her body until he he can at last trace her figure with his eyes. She leans against the wall across from him, inching closer into view. Motes of dust dance through the mixed beams of torch and moonlight, crowning her with a hazy halo.

The sounds of her struggle amuse him as she strains to bring her joined hands under her feet, pressing her back to the hard earth behind her. In a moment’s time, with a grunt and pained sigh, he sees her move her bound wrists to her lap. Knees fold under her as she assumes some semblance of composure.

To the untrained eye, she is in control. Her parody of calm is masterfully-crafted, but she is not the first to defy him in this cell, nor will she be the last. In the meager light, he sees how unkind the forest has been to her. Everything about her is disheveled, from the way her short mop of hair falls in her eyes, to the grit and grime coating her trousers. Pale skin peeks through in places where the fabric has broken, marred here and there by lacerations of varying severity.

The scent of her fear betrays her, heady and sinfully satisfying as his fingers tighten around the box he holds.

“I don’t owe you anything, and I won’t give you my name,” she blurts. Her voice is surprisingly brittle. A far cry from the sound that only hours ago sent his throne room into chaos.

His bark of laughter is sharp and he catches her flinching out of the corner of his eye. Long legs bring him to the bars with little effort, and his face is bathed in light. He watches the muscles in her throat bob as she swallows her dread, her features strained in a mask of indifference that he sees clear through.

He menaces closer, free hand wrapping slowly around the cold, uneven wooden bars that form her cell door. “Oh, I beg to differ. You barge into my castle, you bring this accursed magic with you, you demand my blood, and then faint before I can make an example of you. For that, you owe me a great deal.”

His nostrils flare and he catches the metallic tang of a foreign power on his tongue. His lips curl over pointed teeth.

The Bog King is growling, low and threatening. “Why won’t you tell me your name?”

Frustration spreads across her feature, coloring blanched cheeks. She mirrors him, her own straight, gleaming teeth bared to him.

“Because you’ll fucking trap me here with it, and I’ll die before that happens,” she snaps in reply. The bite in her words catches him off guard, and it only irritates him further. She holds her chin high; her wrists cradled between her legs. How small she is; how foolishly she contends with him.

“That can be arranged,” he barks back with his hollow promise; he recollects himself before he gives into the urge to reach between the bars and take her by the throat.

Shakily, she stands and advances toward him. She is careful to keep her distance, as though she has glimpsed his thoughts. There is a long pause, but her face remains contorted by anger. “Give me my phone,” she grumbles.

Her eyes lock on the black device he holds. How she manages to press him still, seemingly oblivious to her own predicament, baffles him. The smirk that stretches across his face is taunting and cruel.

“Tell me who sent you,” he counters smoothly, “or I will pitch it into a lake.” The Bog King lifts the object upward and gives it a little shake. He watches her reaction carefully.

The woman lunges forward, reaching through the bars for the phone with both hands still bound. She is quick for a human, but her wounds are as effective as weighted chains, slowing her just enough for him to catch her tiny wrists in a vice grip.

She lets slip a ragged cry as he yanks her toward him, pinioning her to the gate. There is still some strength left in her, evidenced by her furious yet tactless struggle to free herself from his claws. She tests his grip and he finds himself forced to subdue her. He raises her hands, drawing her arms above her head sharply until she loses her footing and any leverage she had over his grasp.

He holds her wrists high in a single palm, forcing her to relax, or risk injuring herself further. With a feral, frustrated cry, she slackens in his grip; the hate for him burns white hot in her eyes.

“I’ll kill you,” she declares in a livid whisper. Her voice trembles with anger. “I’ll fucking kill you.”

There is no doubt in his mind in that moment, the way she looks at him with such unadulterated loathing, that she would certainly try.

“Who sent you?” He repeats.

“No one,” she spits. The fight never drains completely from her. Even when she eventually stills to answer him through clenched teeth, she is as taut as a drawn bowstring.

He surges forward, his long nose pointed downward as he searches her eyes for truth. When he finds none, his grip on her wrists tightens marginally. He anticipates her attempt to escape; she arcs as far away from his body as she can physically manage, but he does not allow her to break free of him.

“Who sent you?” He repeats firmly, loosening his hold when she winces. He leans in close, until his face hovers mere inches from her own. His breath is hot against her cheek. “Who sent you to this world?”

There is genuine surprise in her lovely face as that delicate pretense falls. That fury in her cools and a look of realization replaces her ire. This time, he has asked the right question.

Perhaps it is that she knows he knows. If she questions how he has reached that understanding, she does not express it. That look of dawning fades as she grapples with her answer.

“I don’t know!” she jerks against him; he can feel her frustration bubbling over as she speaks in loud, hurried breaths. “It was night. There was… there was a guy with white hair and… a blizzard came out of nowhere.”

He witnesses the patchwork story come together before his eyes. She focuses on a point in the distance as she fights to reclaim those moments in time. “I was in Chicago, and then suddenly, I wasn’t. And I saw a... woman? A woman in blue.”

The name is unfamiliar to him. His brows furrow; his smirk falters minutely, but his hold on her does not waver, even as she tests it. The Bog King lowers her arms slightly as her distress compounds.

“I heard her voice just before I woke up here… she said… Hell, I don’t know what she said… It didn’t make sense.” She stops herself after that final admission; he knows there is more, but he will find it later.

“And the sword?” He gestures shallowly toward the hall, the phone still in hand.

She purses her lips, her irritation momentarily forgotten. “I found it?”

He fixes her with a look that compels her to unravel her own lie.

The girl heaves a sigh, and the King notices the dark depressions under her bleary eyes. “An old woman on the road gave it to me.”

Nothing he hears pleases him, but it becomes quite clear that all is not as he suspected. There is a bigger picture to be painted. His grip loosens and she takes a testing half-step backward, eyes ever-trained on his towering form. The Bog King allows her retreat, and goes so far as to offer the device to her.

She reaches for it quickly with both hands and fumbles to slip it into a pocket. It takes three attempts before she succeeds.

“And this old woman told you to kill me?” The Bog King asks gravely.

It is curious that she does not reply right away. Rather, she shifts her weight and rolls her shoulders. There is a disconcerted air about her. When she finally does reply, it is without certainty.

“I don’t… no, she didn't. Maybe it was just the wind?” She searches him, as though waiting to see if he would accept her partial explanation.

His expression suggests that he is not so gullible.

Her body sags; she inhales slowly, gaze cast to the cobbles at her feet.

“‘Take heed, traveler, lest your toil be for naught; prove thy mettle ‘gainst the wood king’s heart; dispatch the darkness, or forever be forgot.’” The words are not her own, but her recitation is clear. Her voice trembles on the last line.

Neither utters so much as a syllable until the steady sound of dripping water draws them both from their contemplation.

The woman speaks first, and the weariness in her bones spreads to her voice, “Can you please just untie me? The chances of me murdering you while I’m trapped in here are slim to none.”

He considers her proposal, then motions for her to approach him with a shallow wave of his hand. Carefully, she presents her wrists to him, and he can see the angry red welts forming where the rope bites. His talons graze the raw flesh, wrenching mild looks of pain from her. Gently, methodically, he frees her from her bonds and casts the rope to the hall behind him.

She is testing the skin with light touches when he speaks again. “So a voice - not a person, a voice - gives you a riddle, and you assume assassinating me is the answer?” He does not attempt to hide his skepticism.

“When you put it like that, it sounds really stupid,” she scoffs, but he can see the contention play across her features. Even she does not believe. Not completely.

“I was panicked out of my mind,” she continues. “And I don’t think I was totally off base. I mean, look at you. You’re pretty fucking dark.” She gestures toward the Bog King and he does not know whether or not to revel in the compliment, or chastise her for her rudeness. So he does neither.

He expected to walk away from her cell with fewer questions than he had when he woke her, but her answers only bred more. It was true; she was not of this world. Whether or not she hailed from the realm as those who had come before remained to be seen. These were inquiries for another time. The addition of the nameless three fueled his suspicion, and it was only her sharp “Hey!” that made him give pause in his brooding.

She faces him as though she is about to impart a terrible secret. Their eyes lock.

“If...” Her teeth graze her lower lip. His eyebrow quirks upward as she stammers, “If I give you my name, will you let me out of here? And promise not to use it against me?”

She is cleverer than he gives her credit for, though the bargain proposed is hardly one so tantalizing to woo him without further negotiation. Yet it is not her forced obedience that moves him to consider her offer, but the mystery of her circumstances.

The Bog King knows now she is no roving marauder set on a crusade to end his reign. The danger she poses is of the magical kind, and he doubts her abilities to do him any real bodily harm. His subjects, however, are another matter entirely.

A sinister part of him muses over what might transpire should he let this strange woman contend with his hordes on her own.

“And what good is this deal to me if I can’t use what you give me?” he chides, scaled arms folding across his plated chest. “I won’t hold you by your name if you promise not to take up arms against me while you remain in my castle.”

They both cant their heads in tandem. Before he can impress upon her the fairness of the deal, she moves to stand before him of her own volition. Her slender, bloodied fingers curl around the bars that hold her captive.

“My name’s Marianne. I swear I won’t stab you so long as I’m here,” she announces. “Now, I would really, really like it if you'd let me out of this goddamn cell.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know where I'm going from here, but I'm down for giving it a go if you're still with me.


	4. War Follows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More salty language in this chapter, and a new rating to reflect that.

_Now_

* * *

 

The bitter tang on her tongue tastes like defeat. Her body sags with exhaustion. She drags her feet in spite of herself, and thick clumps of dried mud fall from her short lace-up boots as she trudges out of her cell. The ghosts of the King’s nails leave phantom pin pricks in her skin; she rubs at them absently. The barred door creaks open at her captor’s command and she dedicates the dregs of her strength to remaining upright. She clutches her phone tight in her hand, certain that it’s the only thing anchoring her to the world she left behind.

She’s certain that if she lets go, she’s a goner.  
  
She takes an unsteady step across the threshold, but keeps a healthy distance between her and the Bog King. She hasn’t forgotten his manner of coercion, or his attempt to take her name.  
  
The old woman warned her that he would.  
  
Fairies and goblins, the old woman said, will always seize power when it presents itself, and in this place, one’s name is as good as one’s soul. Give it freely, and it will be taken with or without cause. But strike a bargain and you might just have some insurance against their trickery.  
  
Marianne still doesn’t understand the concept of owning a being simply by taking their name. She chalks it up to creepy magic, which she still didn’t totally believe in, and resigns herself to the fact that she may never understand.  
  
In that moment, there are more pressing concerns.  
  
The Bog King looms above her, an imposing figure cut of sinew, bark, and an inexplicably regal bearing. Pale eyes pierce through her from shadowed hollows, framing a wickedly-pointed nose. There are thick blotches of darkness obscuring parts of him, but she catches the faintest twitch of spines protruding from his back. For a moment, she thinks she’s imagined them, but she reminds herself that the normal rules don’t apply here. She saw them when she first attacked him. They seemed real enough then. When before, she questioned every apparition, every spectral shape that she glimpsed out of the corner of her eye. In this world, more often than not, things seen in her periphery are more real than she’d like them to be.

But she still can’t process the fact that this thing has wings.  
  
With a wordless grunt and shallow wave of an upturned hand, he ducks his head and leads her down the dimly-lit, cavernous path out of the dungeon. The castle she remembers barging into wasn’t quite this grim, though she wouldn’t have called it ‘fine’ under any circumstances. Wide halls and slanted walls braced by bark and bone lead them toward a ramshackle spiral staircase. Sconces hang from crude hooks sticking out of the beams, and fire alone lights their way up the steps. She falls in behind him, and in their shared silence, a chorus within her swells. Panicked thoughts flood her mind, but she manages to maintain some semblance of calm.   
  
Just as the breath catches in her throat, she forces herself to speak.

“My sword?” She croaks. The words are barely out of her mouth when she realizes how asinine the question is.  
  
He just grunts.

It’s a grim thought, reaffirmed by the King’s response, but she’s fairly certain that her weapon won’t be returned to her any time soon. Or at all.  
  
A thought halts Marianne in her tracks. The Bog King notices a few steps later, turning to face her. Alien though his features are, she recognizes the irritation on his face, plain as day.

What was she supposed to do now? Run away with her freedom? And take it where, exactly? Back to the woods that would probably be the end of her? Was this monster not her target? Even if she believed he was, she’d struck a deal that prevented her from making another attempt on his life while she remained in this castle. Breaking the oath meant her name would be his for the taking. She can’t risk that, no matter how preposterous the whole notion seems.  
  
Once again, she is lost. A wave of dread hits her squarely in the gut, just as the days without food or water at last catch up with her in the same moment.

Suddenly, she is weightless and falling slowly to a knee. She feels the Bog King gripping her shoulder. He hooks another forearm under her armpit before she can collapse the rest of the way. The contact is electric, urging her to get as far from him as possible. Her eyes flare wide. Marianne jerks backward suddenly and wobbles on her feet, veering dangerously close to the inner edge of the steps.   
  
The Bog King doesn’t let go.  Marianne swats at him limply, too preoccupied in keeping herself upright to make any real effort to repel him. There’s a low growl in the air, which she assumes is his doing. She’s convinced her struggles will earn her a slap across the face, but the King is surprisingly gentle with her, taking care not to graze her wounds or wrench her too roughly.

When she looks up into his face, the irritation is gone, replaced by something unreadable. She thinks she hears him sigh. The swaying has stopped, but there’s a buzzing in her head and the sensation of floating. Everything feels distant and unreal. Her head lolls forward as she realizes the source of the growling is in her own stomach.  
  
When she looks up again, she fixes him with a hard stare. She’s still unsteady, but she wants nothing more to be free of him, in spite of the possibility that he may have just saved her from a long fall.  
  
“Let go of me,” she snarls. When he responds with a sneer, she grits out what remains of her manners. “ _Please_.”  
  
“I think that would be unwise,” he glowers softly.  
  
“You know what’s unwise?” Marianne mocks with a keening edge in her voice, Her words quaver. “Hauling my ass around while I’m bleeding and starving. If we’re going to have some kind of understanding, you need to stop treating me like I just tried to kill you. We had a misunderstanding; we need to move past it.”

Marianne hasn’t ruled out the possibility that she’s still right, but for diplomacy’s sake, she lies.  
  
“Can you just pretend to give a shit about me for two seconds and help me find a sandwich and some band aids before I fucking _die_?” She dislikes how much pain she hears in her own voice.

The Bog King looks at her as though she’s just started speaking in tongues. It rankles her, and she fears the contemplative look in his eye. She feels as though he’s seriously debating whether or not to kill her right there and be done with it, or let her live and deal with the consequences.

For a split second, she thinks she sees a flicker of weariness in his features.

Before she can look deeper, his fingers unfurl from around her arms, releasing her. He gestures with a shallow wave of a long, gnarled hand toward the light above them. “Follow me.”

He doesn’t look back to she if she follows. His shadow stretches out tall and lean behind him in the earthen floor and she can’t seem to look away from it.

For better or worse, though she assumes it will be mostly the latter, she steps into his shadow.

Whether a side-effect of sudden relief, or her sleepless nights finally robbing her of her control, her mouth begins to run.

“Hey, I gave you answers; quid pro quo. How did you know I came from… somewhere else? Are you… in on this bullshit? Is this a common theme here? Where… the fuck… am I? What is even going on?”  
  
Marianne notes distantly that her consonants are slurring together. Then nothing makes sense anymore. Her head feels like a rapidly-inflating balloon.

She is shrinking.

No.

She is falling. _Again_.  
  
There’s no protest from her when the Bog King catches her for the third time since she barged through his doors. Her empty stomach lurches as arms like steel beams slip behind her knees and hoist her off the ground. Something pokes at her back, aggravating a fresh bruise. She thinks she ought to say something about it, but her throat doesn’t work. Marianne wants to punch the King in his face and demand once more that he put her down, but it seems so impossible to do anything more strenuous than breathing.

The whole thing is vaguely insulting, but she can practically see warning lights flashing in the distance, telling her just how empty she is.

The bark-like armor of his chest is coarse and firm against her cheek. She feels his words rumbling through it as he speaks.

Her eyelids flutter shut, but she is just aware enough to recognize that he’s not speaking English.   
  
Whatever he’s saying, it sounds an awful lot to her like “Shut up.”

It’s the last thing she thinks before slipping back into the darkness.

_Then  
_

* * *

It’s snowing. It’s been snowing for days, and the weatherman on ABC 7 warns that it won’t be letting up any time soon. The plows are fighting an uphill battle to keep the streets clear. But when the snow’s gone, the ice sets. So they plow again, turning the fresh white drifts on the sidewalk into hills of frozen, grimy slush. But it keeps snowing, and they can’t salt the asphalt fast enough. The ice always comes. Marianne thinks wryly that perhaps it’s a good thing she can’t afford a car. She’d be too tempted to use it, even under these conditions.   
  
She thinks it still must beat the shit out of walking everywhere.

It’s a monochrome day, dull and desaturated like an old photograph. The clouds hang low, the same silver-white shade as the piles of snow below them. She’s waiting beneath the awning outside Dawn’s office building at the lunch hour.

It’s been two weeks since a stranger filched her winter coat, and she’s still saving up to replace it. Her answer in the short term? Layers. Layers upon layers upon layers. Three long-sleeved shirts lay beneath her thick grey wool sweater, and the light raincoat water poofs her just enough so that the snow doesn’t seep through when it melts. Marianne’s just now recovering from the bone chill that set in four days ago. She’d made the mistake of walking to the corner store in her hoodie, but she’d learned her lesson.

She looks lumpy and ridiculous.

But she’s not freezing anymore, so it doesn’t matter. The warmth is worth it. The judgmental glances of the other, smartly-dressed pedestrians don’t faze her, though she does have to resist the old habit of showing each one of them her middle finger.

  
Dawn thinks she could care. Marianne has yet to make a convincing argument for herself that Dawn accepts.  
  
There’s no product in Marianne’s hair today, but it still defies gravity. She didn’t bother with makeup, either. Her eyes are plain and her skin uneven, but she’s too tired to concern herself with how she looks. Her own hunger is the only thing she’s concerned about.

She leans against the wall beside the door, a foot propped up behind her against the brick. Her boots from two seasons ago are showing their wear, the leather dye fading the the laces fraying. It’s no small miracle that they still hold together and keep her socks dry.  
  
Marianne spies Dawn’s blonde head through the revolving door, and she kicks gently off the wall. Her sister’s breath rises in wispy clouds when she steps outside. Bundled up in her white puffy parka, she looks like a snow bunny.  
  
“Hey,” Marianne calls out as she walks toward Dawn, hands in her pockets.  
  
Dawn’s attention shifts from her phone to Marianne with a start. She places a black mitten over her heart. “Oh my gosh, you scared me!"

“Sorry, didn’t think you startled so easily,” Marianne offers an apologetic smile. “Where do you want to get food?”  
  
“I don’t care. Somewhere nearby, please. I have a call at one I can’t be late for,” Dawn shifts back to business mode easily, and Marianne’s smile falters slightly.   
  
Marianne doesn’t express her disappointment at how little time that gives them, but instead leads them both to a sandwich shop about five blocks away, one of the few places in the area that gets along with Marianne’s wallet. It’s become a trend of late. Their lunch dates keep getting shorter and shorter while her sister’s days at the office get longer and longer. Still, she’ll take whatever time that she can get with Dawn. They may be beings from opposite ends of the personality spectrum, often at each other’s throats, but Marianne’s love for her sister is rooted too deeply to be compromised. She wishes she was as confident that Dawn felt the same.

They sit at the counter over steaming mugs of coffee, and Dawn only puts her phone away when their orders arrive.  
  
Dawn heaves a sigh. “I’m sorry, I’m just having a hellish day. I swear I’m not ignoring you on purpose.”  
  
As if to prove it, Dawn makes a laughably exaggerated effort to look Marianne in the eye.

“Everything okay?” Marianne asks as she plucks the toothpick out of her sandwich.   
  
“It’s nothing I can’t handle. I’m up to my eyeballs in bureaucracy, but I read that’s how you know you’ve made it in this world.” Dawn shrugs, unfolding her napkin. “And I see you’re still rocking the hobo-chic look.”  
  
“You sound way too grown up right now, please stop.” Marianne teases softly. “‘And I think you mean ‘boho-chic.’ I always knew I could pull off the Sienna Miller thing,” she adds facetiously.

Dawn snorts. “Maybe if Sienna Miller wore _actual_ garbage.”

Cutting remarks like these from Dawn were so common that Marianne hadn’t actually taken offense to one in years. It helped that Marianne had never been that invested in her appearance, even during the singular period in her life where she’d decided to make half an effort to be fashionable.

To Dawn’s chagrin, it was a very short phase.

Dawn’s expression darkens, as though she’s thought of something serious to say, but thinks better of it. Marianne doesn’t press her. The two begin to eat in silence, and Marianne wonders if Dawn has any intention of bringing up the elephant in the room.  
  
“So Roland-” Dawn begins after swallowing her first bite in a display of timing.

Marianne cuts her off quickly. “I don’t want to talk about Roland.”  
  
Dawn raises her voice slightly, continuing anyway. “I know he can be a jerk sometimes, but he’s the best guy you’ve ever dated. Things could be so much worse, so maybe cut him some slack.” Dawn doesn’t even sound like she’s managed to convince herself. “You’ve come such a long way, and it seems to me like he’s been a big part of that. I just don’t want to see you fall back into old habits.”

Marianne snorts softly as she resists the urge to speak frankly and tell Dawn just how wrong she is, but she decides against it. As sad as Marianne knows it is, she doesn’t want to compromise whatever approval her sister has given her. If that means concealing the complete truth about Roland’s behavior, then so be it.  
  
That doesn’t mean she can’t disagree.  
  
“You give him way too much credit,” Marianne mutters softly and takes a small bite of her pickle.  
  
Dawn is choking the ketchup out of a glass bottle and onto her pile of fries. She doesn’t look up when she demands brusquely, “Name one other guy besides Roland you’ve dated that hasn’t been arrested.”

Marianne says nothing. It’s a low blow, especially since Dawn knows the answer.   
  
“Name a guy you’ve dated, period, and then explain why you think you get to give me relationship advice,” Marianne retorts, setting her pickle down.  
  
A massive glob of ketchup gushes out of the bottle, drowning her sister’s fries.

She sees a flush creeping into Dawn’s cheeks, but Marianne can’t tell if it’s her fault, or the ketchup’s. Dawn always seems to turn red when she’s frustrated. No outburst follows though, so they fall back into uncomfortable silence.

Imagining Dawn’s positive appraisal of Roland is one thing. Hearing it is more depressing than Marianne could possibly have imagined.

It’s true, she lives a quieter life now. She traded house shows and Sharps for Netflix and a pet ficus. She follows the rules now and seems to have her sister’s tenuous approval. Supposedly, she’s on the right track for once in her life.  
  
So why can’t she explain the rapidly-expanding sinkhole that exists where her heart used to be?

The food in her mouth suddenly loses its flavor and she wonders if anyone has ever thrown up from rapid onset loneliness.

Marianne looks for another avenue of conversation to pursue, anything other than her highly unsatisfactory life and all the dismal details that made it so utterly unfulfilling. She’s getting tired of blaming herself. She’s especially tired of how these talks with Dawn always seem to go down this path, and she’s worried that the trend will continue until the talks just stop happening.

That’s the thought that keeps her up at night. Not Roland. No, she never loses sleep over Roland.

Dawn’s the only one left that matters.  
  
There’s a spark in her as a memory surfaces. Before she’s even considered how Dawn will react, she’s blurting out, “I had that dream again.”  
  
There’s a reproachful look in Dawn’s eyes when she turns to stare at Marianne. Blonde, round-faced, and fair though she is, she can turn into a furious little rain cloud so quickly.

“You’re still on that?” Dawn asks with an arched brow. She reaches for her water.  
  
Marianne ignores the question. “It’s the same woman. I still can’t see her, but the song gets a little more clear each time. I can almost make out lyrics.”  
  
This isn’t the first time Marianne’s brought this up, and a week ago, Dawn showed genuine interest in her story. But that interest was short-lived, and Marianne didn’t know how much longer Dawn would humor her.  
  
Corporate America was doing a number on her sister, which only helped reinforce the notion that Marianne had no business trying to become part of it.  
  
Dawn sighs. “Don’t you think you’re obsessing over this a bit much?”

“You have to admit, it’s pretty weird.”

“Yeah, it’s weird. But not so weird that I wouldn’t just call it ‘subconscious nonsense’ and move on. Don’t you have more important things to think about? You’re three years older than me and you still don’t have a credit card.” Dawn’s tone is so matter-of-fact and condescending that Marianne resists a powerful and insistent need to put her fist through the countertop.   
  
“I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you had such a giant stick up your ass,” Marianne jeers as she puts down the second half of her sandwich. The last of her appetite is gone..

“Hey, I’m just trying to impart some wisdom. You seem to need a lot of it lately,” Dawn snips.

It only riles Marianne further. “And you could stand to be less of a bitch about it.”

“You know what,” Dawn declares loudly, setting down her water. “I’m going to finish lunch in my office. Call me when you grow up.”   
  
And with that, Dawn is out of her seat, shrugging into her parka and snatching up the remains of her sandwich. She takes an angry bite and turns sharply toward the door.  
  
Marianne is fuming, knuckles white as her hands ball into tight fists on the counter.   
  
“Yeah? Well call me when you get the fuck over yourself!” Marianne calls out after her. Heads turn, and she feels the weight of a dozen disapproving stares.   
  
She can’t get out of there fast enough.   
  
The rest of the day passes uneventfully, though her less-than-stellar lunch with Dawn hovers over her. She stops at the library to return a few books before they’re overdue. Her next shift isn’t for another twenty four hours, she so splurges a little and picks up a couple of cheap bottles of beer from the corner store near the bus stop.  
  
It’s dusk by the time she’s back in Bridgetown, blocks from her apartment. The cold set in fast. She shrugs deeper into her layers, walking briskly to keep her body temperature up. Her headphones blare in her ears so loudly that she almost misses the man out of the corner of her eye, waving at her.  
  
When she turns her head, she wonders how she could have possibly overlooked him.  
  
He’s so slight that she wonders if he suffers from some kind of vitamin deficiency. His hair is a striking shade of white, which doesn’t make sense to her when she notes his narrow, youthful face. She tugs an earbud out as he jogs up to her.

“Pardon me!” He chirps, dark eyes glimmering somehow in the waning light. There’s a hint of an accent there, but she can’t quite place it. The pitch of his voice is higher than she anticipated. “I’m sorry, but I seem to be a bit lost. You wouldn’t happen to know how to get to McKinley Park, would you?”

She can make out the lapels of a grey suit beneath his ivory wool overcoat. Marianne can’t fathom why anyone would get a coat like that in white, though she figures it may be something that a well-off eccentric might do. She also doesn’t understand why anyone would want to go to McKinley Park after dark in the middle of winter. That thought above all makes her uneasy. Marianne stuffs her gloved hands into the pockets of her rain coat, eyeing the man warily.  
  
“West on 35th, across the river. Just keep going that way,” she inclines her head back the way she came and starts to walk away before he can question her further. She hopes he takes the cue.  
  
She grits her teeth when she hears the rapid clicking of the soles of his shoes. He’s trotting up beside her, “Thank you! I must have plumb missed the street sign. So you live around here, then?” He asks cheerily.

“No,” Marianne lies.

“Ah well, perhaps you can help me with another matter-”

“I’m actually late for a date, sorry,” Marianne lies again, hurrying down the block. When she casts a subtle glance over her shoulder and doesn’t see him following, she heaves a rattling sigh of relief.

When she finally locks the deadbolt behind her, safe in her little studio, she leans back and rests her head against the wooden door.  
  
“Hey, Greg,” she murmurs to the squat, purple-potted ficus besides her. “Did you miss me?”

No answer comes, but she never expects one out of that ritual. If she could afford the vet bills, Greg would be a cat. She’s never much cared for cats, but she thinks perhaps their company would be more fulfilling than a plant. Maybe she would find one with a winning personality. Then she might finally become the cat lady the internet wanted her to be.

Her space is small and rather industrial-looking, but she’s spent months working to turn her studio into something she actually wants to come home to. There’s one brick wall across from the kitchen, the wall she shares with the apartment behind her, and it’s mostly covered with band posters at this point.

It’s sparsely-decorated, but the few things she’s acquired feel comfortable and welcoming. She’s especially proud of the Restoration Hardware wooden bench she found at a Goodwill. It looks downright rustic Martha Stewart in the kitchen, adorned with two red plaid pillows.

She’d come a long way, alright. If only the old gang could see her now.

They’d never stop laughing.

She kicks off her boots in the entryway and starts peeling away layers of shirts. The Christmas lights strung across her kitchen counter fill the living area with a pale, warm glow. She’s shuffling across the hardwood in her socks toward the fridge when every hair on her body stands on end.  
  
Time and experience have taught Marianne not to doubt her instincts, so without hesitation, she whips the metal baseball bat out of the gap between the oven and the fridge, spinning on her heel to face the loveseat.  
  
The white-haired man reclines on the couch, his arms outstretched atop the backing. The twinkling lights catch in his eyes and she can make a pale, amber pinprick in each one. Her fingers clench around the bat as she snarls at the man, looking for the appropriately intimidating words. She looks like she’s ready to hit one out of the park.  
  
Meanwhile, her mind is racing.  
  
She locked the door.  
  
She’d left him behind.  
  
There was no sign anyone had come before her.  
  
Her only accessible window was three stories up.  
  
Marianne’s throat tightens as he cants his head. He sits in relative darkness with a pleasant smile plastered to his face.  
  
The stranger makes a clucking sound with his tongue. “You’re a violent one, aren’t you? That does change things a bit.” His smile evolves into a smirk and Marianne feels the entire air in the apartment change.

Her outrage morphs into fear, but she refuses to let her terror take hold of her.   
  
She digs deep and finds the place where nothing can touch her. Back to the days she struggles to leave behind. Back to when she was stronger. She finds the part of her that always gets her into trouble.

She finds the part of her that always survives.

“Get out,” she hisses, advancing toward the man on her couch. Her words are molten anger, “or I will paint the walls with you.”  
  
His eyebrows raise at that, disappearing behind short locks of alabaster. Just when she thinks she may have startled him, he throws his head back and barks with laughter.  
  
“Oh, you are just as I’d hoped you be,” he trills, deftly dabbing at the corner of his eye with a knuckle. He rises and begins to button his coat. “It’s a shame, really. Makes this a great deal more difficult.”  
  
Marianne stares at him, mouth slightly agape as she tries to process his words. She thinks he must be insane. There’s no explanation for his behavior.

“Who are you? How the fuck did you get in here?” She is running through her options. If the man is certifiable, she doesn’t trust herself to handle the situation alone. She thinks she can overpower him physically, but she’s never known how to deal with the crazy ones; they’re too unpredictable. At least the armed ones she’s dealt with.

It may be time to dial 9-1-1.  
  
He is still smiling. Seconds later, he is _still_ smiling. He has no answers for her, and she’s prepared to make good on her threat.

Her muscles are coiled and ready to spring. She’s just about committed to rush him and bring her bat down on his skull when suddenly, he’s gone.  
  
There’s no smoke or bright light to suggest that it was some sort of parlor trick; he simply wasn’t there anymore, as though he’d never existed in the first place. Marianne spins on her heel, searching for signs of him. Her heart hammers in her chest as she breaks away and begins frantically testing the latch on the window and securing every lock on her door. She scrambles to pull her phone from her pocket and nearly drops it thanks to trembling fingers. All the while, she never lets go of her aluminum baseball bat.  
  
Marianne is about to call the police when she stops herself.  
  
What would she even tell them? There is no evidence to suggest that anyone’s been in her apartment aside from her. There’s no clear point of entry. And how does she explain his sudden departure to them?

How does she even explain it to herself? Had she imagined it all?  
  
There’s a moment where she considers she may be losing her mind. She can feel her own fear clutching her heart. She wills it away with slow, even breaths.   
  
Marianne didn’t know what to do with herself. She suspects she won’t sleep for days, but going outside seems like a terrible idea. There’s no one in her contacts list who she would even consider telling her story to. Dawn might have been an option, had they not parted on such bad terms today.  
  
She does the only thing her anxious mind will allow.  
  
She drags an old wool blanket from the foot of her bed and turns on her radio to the loudest station she can find. Once she’s switched all the lights on, she grabs her baseball bat, plops onto the ground, draping the blanket over her, and waits against the couch with her makeshift weapon firmly in hand.   
  
Her vigil ends by three in the morning, at which point she dozes off in spite of herself.   
  
There’s a moment in the twinkling hour of pre-dawn when she rejoins the living world, but she is far from awake. She hears soft crackling over the radio. The noise breaks and swells, as though the machine is searching for a signal. Silence reigns for a few precious second before the faraway hymn begins to bleed through the speakers.  
  
It’s the same five notes over and over, and a warbling voice Marianne never understands. It’s always oceans away.  
  
When Marianne awakens with burning, dry eyes, it’s to the smooth crooning of the morning announcer, and the sound of traffic far below.

She spends the hours leading up to work Googling ‘schizophrenia.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The mystery compounds! What did you think? Please let me know! Your reviews give me the strength to keep writing.


	5. Ghost on the Water

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning for brief descriptions of gore.

Marianne bides in darkness. Again. The same empty place she just can’t seem to escape. Time marches on without her. But there is just enough of her there in that quiet space, aware and thinking. It’s cold and still, but she feels just enough to dislike it. Fear and frost nip at her insides. She reaches for a memory that will shield her from the chill, anything to hold the emptiness at bay.

_There is dirt under her bloody, black-lacquered fingernails. She tongues at the gravel in her teeth._

Something else emerges from the depths of her unconscious. It slips from her grasp as the shadow creeps in from and old place. Marianne pushes it away; it brings her no warmth. But it’s too much already, it spills into her mind until it becomes the present once more.

_She clenches her fist against the wet asphalt, boots scraping against it as she struggles to rise. Muffled voices jeer at her, and the words bite as though they have fangs of their own._

_Dad never let her take a martial art. Mom thought it might be useful, but Dad would never permit his daughter to pursue such a violent sport. He doubted she would have the self-control to use those skills wisely; she was already such a loose cannon._

_If only Dad could have foreseen that she’d one day find herself squaring off with Grady and Hix alone. She didn’t start it, either. No, they did when they sent TJ to the hospital with a fractured skull. She was simply here to repay them in kind. He had known for some time the kind of trouble she brewed out there with the lost boys. Marianne knew she was playing with fire, and that it might just become too big for her to contain. Of course Dad loathes it._

_But Dad never gives her a reason to stop._

_Their voices are clearer now, and closer. Someone kicks dirt into her eyes and she visibly winces._

_“She looks like she’s gonna cry.”_

_“You gonna cry, little girl?”_

_The tears in her eyes aren’t born of fear or frustration; it’s just biology at work, flushing the grime out of her ducts. The road crunches under his boots as he approaches her prone form. She scrapes at the ground and hoists herself to her feet. She’s off like a shot with an alacrity that surprises her. It surprises them too, given the sudden slackness in their faces. Hix isn’t ready for the knee she drives into his gut._

_He doubles over and Grady is at her side, throwing a fist at her cheek. She nearly topples over again, spitting out pulp as her head snaps left. Marianne sees him winding up another. There’s no time to think, so she doesn’t. She moves, commending her fate to instinct._

_She’s on Grady in an instant, scrabbling to find purchase. Her blackened nails dig into his neck; she hooks a leg behind his knee and pushes hard. Her teeth clamp down on an exposed ear while she drives her fingers into his eyes_. _He’s screaming so loud next to her that she thinks her eardrums may burst before he runs out of breath, but she doesn’t care. She sees the world in shades of red. Her blood is on fire. She will have violence, or nothing at all. He is tearing at her, shrieking again for the pain to stop._

_When Grady finally throws her to the ground, he clasps his hands over the raw, gnawed lobe. Blood trickles down his jacket as the rain picks up again. She thinks he might start bawling. He staggers and she hawks a chunk of cartilage onto the street while she stumbles back, raising her fists._

_Hix is at his side, big eyes wide and full of shock. The thug is gone; back is the fifteen year old boy with the unevenly shaved head, too-big eyes, and the tattered eagle patch pinned to the back of his vest._

_He screams at her while her shaven-head attacker crumples to his knees. She can’t make out the words._

_The rest of the moment unfolds in the distance. She knows what comes next; she’s re-lived this scene countless times, always hoping that it will end differently. It never does, try as she might._

_Marianne is numb to the first raindrops that break on her cheek. It’s not until the downpour begins seconds later that she realizes where this day is going. She stumbles to her feet. Hix is up and she knows the look in his eye._

_But it’s different this time._

_This time, a woman stands between them, clad in flowing blue._  
  
It never happened this way; Marianne is aware enough to know this. But she can’t wake up, and unlike her dreams, she can’t change the scene.

_The boys stare straight through the stranger, eyes fixed on Marianne. But to Marianne, there is no one else present save this woman and her waves of pearly white hair._

_Everything creeps onward in slow motion, Marianne’s eyes wide and set upon her. Blood trickles lazily down the split in her lip, and Hix doesn’t move toward her, or draw his knife like he’s supposed to. She waits for the feeling of steel splitting her flesh, but it never comes._

_Nor do Dawn’s screams, or the wailing of the sirens and the sterile smell of the inside of an ambulance._

_The woman’s features are set in grim determination, ethereal and familiar all at once. Pale lips mouth words that Marianne can’t hear. There’s nothing but the sound of the rain. Marianne takes an unsteady step forward, thinking that perhaps she is too far away, that she must be closer. The woman’s face falters, flaxen brows knit together. Again she speaks, forming the same soundless words._

_Marianne has seen her before. Not then, all those years ago on that lonely street, but more recently. The Marianne of then does not recognize the unearthly countenance. But Marianne the observer, the woman who exists in the present and bears witness to the past - she knows that face all too well._

_The edge of her vision frays and everything slows, as though she is moving through tar. She can feel the schism in time like a crack in the pavement beneath her feet. The world splits in half and she falls through it, back into nothing._

Layer by layer, the darkness lifts until she feels herself breaching the boundary between waking and dreaming. She returns to the world with a shallow gasp, eyes snapping wide open into hazy dimness. She feels heavy and stiff, but her aches and pains have dulled to the point where she no longer fixates on them. Below her, a soft surface - a bed, she hopes. Beside her, a wooden tray and a small offering of what smells like bread. Above her, gnarled roots sit eternally knotted in the earthen ceiling.  
  
She can see very little, but just enough to discern that she is alone, and the room devoid of obvious threats. There are few trappings, if at all. Something dark and tattered hangs from the wall across from her. The space is small and cocoon-like, and smells faintly of damp earth. She knows she ought to get up and figure out where exactly she is, but her body is so heavy and she is so warm at last. So she remains, staring through heavily lidded eyes at the ceiling.

A translucent ghost of the scene past plays over and over against it.

Again, and again, until it clicks. It’s built on no more substance than a hunch, but the strength of her own conviction leaves little room for doubt. She inhales sharply at the realization, and her chest aches with knowing.

The blue woman speaks again, and this time, it’s Marianne’s inner voice that fills the words.

“Find me.”

* * *

 

He has naught left in the way of patience for the rabblesome company of his lessers. They carouse and bicker amongst themselves as he ruminates in his oaken chair. He shields himself from their nonsense with a long palm across his eyes, but their cacophonous bickering seeps into his very bones until he is certain that blood must be spilled.

There is no rarer guest in his halls than silence. The King thought once that were it not for the regular intrusions of wayward souls and would-be usurpers, he might once again know peace. But the memory is false. He cannot remember when quiet last reigned over his castle, nor a moment when his heart harbored a tender notion toward anything at all. The blame he places on the girl is not wholly deserved - this he knows full well - but there are none among him now who would dare suggest that he school his thoughts and spare her the brunt of his displeasure. She has ventured where she ought not have, and if she might now serve as the effigy of all his ails - be she a victim or willing agent, he cares not - so be it; she would burn.

If only he possessed the will to act on such indiscriminate lust for violence. But then, were it not she - the riddle that she is - perhaps he could. Her circumstances are not so unusual and her presence so uncanny that he sees reason to alter his demeanor toward her so drastically. Still, he finds himself in his idle moments dwelling upon them, toiling to form an explanation for why she perplexes him so.  
  
Even the sword laid out before him on the table remains a mystery to him. Its origins concealed by magical means that even he cannot unravel. He is left to glean what he can through simple observation, a task that does naught but aggravate him. It is steel, that much is easily observed - atypical, when so many before her have come brandishing iron. He does not concern himself often with the economies of man, but one comes to recognize the makers’ marks when hundreds of swords are left orphaned at his steps after their bearers fall. This one bears no such seal. If it did indeed come from a mortal’s forge, he could not say which one. But this, too, he doubts.

It is yet another bit of kindling to add to the flame, as pale eyes roll downward to glare at the seared grey flesh of his palm. There is no iron, of that he is certain - he would scent it. But still, the blade repels him. Not as iron would. No, it is a slow and smoldering heat, not the crude bite of cursed metal, and the wound it inflicts is slow to heal.

That above all else compels him to snap the girl’s neck and cast the sword to his hearth.

He reaches wearily for the staff leaning against his rough-hewn throne and strikes the floor loudly, commanding attention with a few short raps against stone.

“ _Leave me_ ,” he snarls in the auld tongue.

It is a boisterous parting, and far too many dawdle while others outright flee (leading to a great many butting of horns and tangling of scaled limbs) but in time, the hall empties. He knows that his solitude is temporary, as a shrill, coarse voice pierces the quiet.

“ _It has been two hundred years since last we were graced by so fair a guest, yet you would leave her to rot in darkness_?”

Two tiny, knobbly hands appear at the far end of the table, gripping the edge. A wiry mess of fine brown hair rustles into view as the creature begins to pull itself atop the wooden slab, grunting throughout this arduous task.

“ _For shame, my dear king. Have I been so remiss in my tutelage_?”

The hand covering the Bog King’s face falls into his lap, and he regards the creature through narrowed eyes as she comes to stand upon his table. He sets his staff against the table.

‘She,’ if only for the faintly feminine features that accent her stocky form. A toadstool, she is, crowned by a wreath of briars. Black eyes like coals sit in shallow sockets, a pinprick of firelight dancing in each one. A crooked mouth spans from ear to pointed ear, broken teeth peeking out from behind clay-colored lips. A smock of brambles and burlap conceals her figure, with a string of brightly-colored baubles hanging from round her thick neck.

Such a lowly form she assumes, he thinks. Once, he spoke freely of his disdain for her diminutive stature and questioned her choice, but she has long-since ceased entertaining his idle inquiries. For as old as he is, she is older and, unlike him, free to be seen as whatever she chooses.

“ _What would you have me do, then? Invite her to my table after her blatant attempt on my life? Am I to suffer such an insult in hospitality's name_?’”

“ _I too have eyes, my king, and I see full well that she poses no more a threat to your life than I. She is barely a mouthful for the wolves, least of all the wolf itself under the guise of a lamb_.”

“ _You have seen her, then?_ ”

“ _It was I who tended to her wounds, for it seems your servants are too afeared to deliver her bread, much less touch her, which I suppose is your doing,” she spits the words in distaste. “No matter. You will see her properly fed when she is able_.”

The King’s teeth set and he leans forward, bracing an arm against his table, “ _I shall do no such thing_.”

He does not speak of the sword and its magic, nor the admissions the girl supplied while under duress. His mother does not press him, either.

“ _She vexes you, that much is plain. But mayhaps she shall prove herself to be an ally in disguise if only you would be a balm when one is needed_.”

“ _I do as I will, and at present, I am completely disinclined to show mercy to my prisoner. And you will not tell me otherwise_.”

“ _She is not of this world_ ,” she hisses. “ _She does not wield iron, nor bear a standard of the houses of men. Yet you do not question her origin, or consider that she may have been sent with greater purpose_?”

The creature’s chest swells sharply as beady eyes narrow, her tone harsh as she bites back “ _Treat her as you would an enemy, and that is all she will be_.”

He stills as her words ring true, but stubbornness compels him still to refute her. Yet he has not have the conviction to do so, his mind exhausted from the day’s trials. He has considered these possibilities, wondered if this girl is in fact the old gods incarnate. Possibilities abound, but proof? There is none.

Just a multitude of questions, and answers that give rise to more.

A quiet sigh escapes him.

“ _As usual, mother, your counsel is ill-timed and unwanted_.”

His mother huffs loudly, says no more as she vanishes, dissolving into thick tendrils of pitch black fog. His nostrils flare with the scent of ash. It lasts but a moment before disappearing entirely, and he is at last truly alone.

He steeples long, bony fingers against his lips, elbows braced on the arms of his chair.

He lets his thoughts wander where they may, until even the sounds of his own musings fade into nothing.

* * *

 

Marianne drifts in and out of sleep. For once, it’s of her own volition. She feels only a modicum of guilt for it, sleeping when she ought to be planning her own escape. And then what?

Reluctantly, she opens her eyes and lays curled on her side, staring at the wall opposite her.

She hadn’t the faintest inkling as to what she might do next. The world beyond this forest was no less foreign to her than the castle in which she was captive. It’s all just moors and hills, and the sheer cliffs with the slate grey ocean lapping at their faces.

No, she’s wrong - there is more than that.

She remembers the hag, sitting upon the stump, whose words were so affected by accent and dialect that she barely understood what was said to her. Everything except the riddle. Marianne remembers standing there, dumbstruck and starving, trying to make sense of the rhyme when the old woman offered her the bound sword. She didn’t even question where it came from, or its purpose; she simply seized it and set off in her panic.

Looking back, she understands how she came to such a violent conclusion, but does not deny that perhaps she missed something. The King is monstrous and no less terrifying than her own Labyrinth-tainted nightmares, but something deep within her prevents her from thinking he is, in fact, the so-called darkness she’s supposed to destroy.

Her heart sinks with the weight of the thought. What good is she against any danger? She feels so powerless in this place, she wonders how long she can maintain this air of bravado.

She can feel the cold tendrils of doubt and the downward spiraling of her own thoughts. Quickly, she pushes herself upright, cringing at the tightness in her abdomen. She looks down at herself to find her jacket unzipped, and crudely cut strips of something beneath her shirt. Her arms are still dusted with dirt, but as she gently palms her own cuts and bruises, her hands come away clean.

Someone has been here, touching her, and it sends a terrible thrill through her.

Slowly, she pushes herself herself to the edge of her “bed,” which she now sees is merely a mound of some form of fabric and what appears to be moss. It crunches softly beneath her as she takes a cautious step forward to stand in the middle of the room.

Again, the question of time arises: how long has she been asleep? How much time has passed since her arrival? Hours? Days? There are no windows to the outside world, just the meager lantern light that trickles in from beneath the door.

  
Marianne cautiously limps toward the door and finds an intricate knot of roots jutting out from the wood. She assumes - hopes - it’s a handle, and tests it. The door doesn’t give, and she tries again, pulling it toward her more firmly.

The sound of metal against metal reverberates through it and she stiffens in anticipation of whatever danger awaits her outside that door.

She can hear a latch give way and then light pours into the room. Her eyes throb at the sudden brightness, and she reflexively shields them with a hand. She blinks rapidly as she struggles to bring the black silhouette at her feet into focus.

When she can again see well enough to determine its shape, she finds herself once again straining to reconcile what she sees with what she knows. In the doorway stand two waist-high creatures with shark-like, colorless faces. She thinks she can make out the line of what appears to be crude, wooden armor. They each hold spears that look as though they’ve been broken and mended three times over.

A few seconds of silence pass before Marianne realizes that neither has done a thing except stare at her.

Until the one on the left raises a stumpy leg to kick the one on the right in the shin. “Dinnae dawdle - jus’ say it!”

The right-most creature growls and snaps rows and rows of jagged teeth at the creature on the left. “Ye’ was s’posed to say it! I wasn’a listenin.’”

Marianne stands stock still as they continue to bicker a bit longer. For a moment, she wonders if she’s still sleeping. The moment is far too unreal to be happening. Eventually, after the exchange of a few blows, one of the guards turns to address her, its helmet knocked askew.

“Th’ King wants t’see ye.”

“Ye’r t’come wi’ us.”

Marianne doesn’t speak. She briefly considers clocking their heads together and making a run for it, but with her leg as banged up as it is, she knows she won’t make it far without being intercepted and subjected to the King’s “justice.”

“Fine,” she mutters, taking a hesitant step across the threshold. To her surprise and mild amusement, the guards scuttle back from her as though she might bite. Were she not so completely drained, she would have some fun with them, but at present, she’s more inclined to get this over and done with.

What “this,” is, though, she has no idea. They have their truce, but she doesn’t know what that’s worth. She doesn’t even know who he is, or the value of his word. He may very well have decided to kill in the time that she slept.

There’s little she can do at this point except roll with the punches.

So onward, she rolls.

Marianne looks down to find the guards staring at her. Brows raised, she gestures down the hallway.

“After you, gentlemen.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Less exposition next time, I swear. Let me know what you think!


End file.
